


Watering Plastic Plants in the Hope That They'll Grow

by JackEPeace



Category: Barely Lethal (2015)
Genre: F/F, Soul Mate AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-03
Updated: 2018-04-03
Packaged: 2019-04-17 15:51:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14192460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JackEPeace/pseuds/JackEPeace
Summary: She’s tried not to think about it, tried to act like she really doesn’t care about this important aspect of growing up, this rite of passage. But Liz knows, laying her in the darkness of her bedroom, watching another minute tick away on the clock, that she cares very much.-or-The obligatory soul mate AU.





	Watering Plastic Plants in the Hope That They'll Grow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Geeky_MikaBoo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Geeky_MikaBoo/gifts).



> These idiots are gay and what fandom doesn't need a soul mate AU? 
> 
> Also happy birthday to my girl! I hope you like this story! I know it's not even close to the "prompt" you gave me but I was feeling inspired I guess? So happy birthday, peaches! You are the greatest! 
> 
> Title from "Turn" by Wombats

Liz Larson turns thirteen quietly and with little fuss because the rest of the world is still wrapped in darkness and she can hear her parents arguing from down the hall. During the day, it’s easier to pretend that they don’t do this because her father is gone at work and her mother is all brusque smiles and exasperated demands but at night, when they think their children are asleep along with the rest of the neighborhood, Liz can hear them. She imagines that children all over the world have done exactly what she’s doing now, have lain awake at night and wondered what was going to happen to the world in the morning. Would everything be fine and normal? Would tonight’s fight be the last one?

Liz turns over onto her side, looking at the alarm clock beside her bed -the one shaped like a chicken, the one she loved as a little girl that her mother doesn’t seem to think is worth getting rid of now that she’s not a little girl anymore.

According to the numbers on the clock, she’s officially a teenager now.

She’s officially thirteen and Liz wonders how it will happen.

She’s tried not to think about it, tried to act like she really doesn’t care about this important aspect of growing up, this rite of passage. But Liz knows, laying her in the darkness of her bedroom, watching another minute tick away on the clock, that she cares very much.

For the past few weeks, Liz has been watching it happen to her classmates. Every morning, it seems, some new boy or girl will come waltzing into her seventh-grade homeroom and proudly display a wrist or ankle, the skin there bare no more. And everyone will crowd around -Liz included, admittedly- to see the name printed there on skin.

And, of course, the speculation will begin, especially if the name happens to match the name of one of their classmates. Liz feels her cheeks flush at the idea, praying that the name that shows up on her wrist will be that of a stranger. Even though she knows thirteen is too early to actually _meet_ your soulmate -she hopes. _God_ she _hopes_ it’s too early- she isn’t sure that she can endure the teasing if it’s the name of anyone she knows.

Though, Liz still has no idea how it’s actually going to happen. She’s thirteen now so does it just…appear? Will it hurt? Will she even know, or will she just look down suddenly and bam, find a name on her wrist?

Liz slowly pushes her arm out from beneath her blanket, the sound of her parents’ voices momentarily forgotten. She’s almost afraid to look but she does it suddenly, like pulling off a Band-Aid.

Not that there’s anything to see. Her skin is still bare, smooth when she rubs her thumb along it. Her ankle is likewise free from anything but a freckle and Liz sighs, flopping back down onto her pillow.

Well, it’s only technically just five minutes past midnight on her birthday. There’s still plenty of time.

Not that she cares about that type of thing.

Soulmates, who needs them?

Except, Liz thinks, it might be kinda nice to _know_ that there’s someone out there who’s meant just for her.

Liz eventually manages to drift off to sleep -when her parents grow quiet and she stops imagining the name that will appear on her wrist- but her sleep is restless, and she finds herself dreaming about her Soulmark and the letters that might be etched there.

This year her birthday is on a Sunday and that seems like a present in and of itself. It means that she doesn’t have to listen to the sound of her alarm blaring her awake or listen to her mother yelling at her from down the hall to wake up and get herself ready and then help Parker find his shoes and his backpack and don’t forget breakfast.

Instead, Liz can just open her eyes, staring at the sun that falls through her window and onto the floor and listen to the chirping of the early morning spring birds outside. It’s her birthday, she reminds herself, and a rush of warm excitement spreads through her body, prickling her insides.

And…and…

Liz swallows, trying not to care. Pretending, once again, that she’s above caring about this sort of thing.

But then she looks at her wrist once more. And again, she finds it empty.

Which is fine, of course. Totally fine. There’s still plenty of time.

And there’s plenty of other things to focus on, after all. Like the fact that when she comes downstairs, there are balloons and streamers and a few decorative touches that are courtesy of Parker. And her mom is making pancakes and her dad wraps her in his arms and kisses her forehead and talks about how grown up she is now. And there’s a trip to the zoo and Liz actually doesn’t mind walking past the different exhibits with Parker’s sweaty hand in her own, pointing things out to her brother and sharing in his excitement. And later there’s cake and presents and Parker’s drawings and everyone singing terribly off-key as she blows out the candles and that’s enough, right? Definitely enough.

Except it’s not…not quite.

Because Liz still catches herself peeking at her wrist whenever she can, just in case. And she wears shorts on the off-chance that her Soulmark might appear on her ankle -which is rare, but it does happen, she knows, and maybe it’ll happen to her.

And she can’t help but notice that her parents are watching her closely too, more so than usual, no doubt attempting to catch a glimpse of the same thing that Liz has been looking for all day.

But her wrist is still bare, her skin unblemished. And Liz pretends not to notice and her parents pretend not to notice and she pretends that it doesn’t weigh heavily on the back of her mind, that her throat isn’t growing tight with worry and shame.

By the time the cake and presents are done, and Parker is passed out in his own bed -exhausted from all the sugar and the excitement of the day- Liz is certain of one thing: there’s no one out there meant for her.

When her mother comes to tuck her in, Liz can see her looking at her daughter’s wrist, can see the way she hesitates, like she wants to say something more. But she doesn’t, just smiling and kissing her goodnight and closing the door behind her.

Liz rolls over, tucking her arm beneath her, squeezing her eyes shut tightly. _It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter_ is the mantra that she puts herself sleep to, a lullaby that she thinks she might have to repeat over and over for the rest of her life.

And when she wakes up in the morning, once again to the sound of her alarm and her mother yelling for her to get dressed, Liz can see that her wrist is no longer bare. There’s something there after all.

But not a name.

A number.

 _83_.

Liz decides to wear long sleeves to school that day.

 

* * *

 

Agent 83 is able to approximate the day of her birth and her age based on how Hardman and Knight and the others start acting around her. She’s seen them do the same thing with the other girls, watching them more intently than the rest of their trainees, before eventually isolating them for a day or two and then throwing them back in with the general population. And always, the girls are sporting a brand-new mark on the inside of their wrist, a brilliant red welt that eventually fades into a ropey scar.

When she was younger, 83 used to imagine it was some sort of torture, another Prescott rite of passage that eventually she would have to endure too. She imagined what it would feel like to be burned like that, tried to prep herself and get herself into the right headspace to endure the moment with a quiet dignity, the way Hardman would expect her to.

But, last year, she had learned what Hardman was really doing -what the point of the torture really was. It had been the first time that she had thought about the world outside the walls of Prescott.

The older girls had told her, the ones who had already been outside, who had been on missions, who had their thick and ropey scars, who knew more than 83. They told her and 84 and some of the others, after 79 had been spirited away to receive a scar of her own.

Soulmate is a word entirely new to 83 and it brings with it a concept that she’s never considered before -that there might be someone out there for her, another half, something to complete her that isn’t Prescott.

“That’s why they burn the name away,” 57 had said solemnly to all the saucer-eyed girls staring at her while she explained the mystery. “No attachments. Nothing before Prescott.”

And so, 83 knows that her time is coming, that she’s nearly thirteen, that it’s almost her birthday and it’s strange for her to think about the fact that this day has passed every year, unbeknownst to her at all. It’s strange to think that Hardman and the others have known this piece of information about her all along.

And then, suddenly, Hardman beckons her out of the training room and, for the first time in her life, 83 finds herself in solitary. It’s always a threat, of course, one that she’d always promised herself Hardman would never have to make good on. Not that it mattered, apparently, because here she is anyway -alone aside from Knight, who is watching her closely.

For the appearance of the name of her Soulmate, 83 knows now. For the moment where the name will etch itself on her wrist and then be burned away just as quickly.

“They don’t let you see it,” 57 had said with a dismissive nod. “They’re quick.”

It doesn’t matter, 83 tells herself, she’s not going to bother herself with even glancing at her wrist when the time comes. That’s not what a good Prescott agent would do. A good Prescott girl _knows_ that nothing comes before her duties.

She’s practiced for this moment, after all, for years. She’s going to be still and stoic and endure the moments of pain and the ache that will follow without complaint.

But then, suddenly, the moment is here and Knight has noticed the name before it has even occurred to 83 that it’s there on her wrist at all. And it all happens quickly after that -Hardman and another agent come into the room and it’s Hardman who has the brand in his hand and 83 can feel the heat radiating off the metal before it’s even close to her skin.

And suddenly…suddenly…she wants to know.

She _needs_ to know.

She turns her head but Knight is holding onto her wrist tightly, her fingers covering whatever name might be written there.

And 83 can feel her heart hammering in her chest and suddenly she doesn’t feel very stoic at all. “No,” she says quickly, “wait.”

It has nothing to do with the heat, the metal, the pain.

All she can think about is the person whose name is there on her skin, the person that she will never know, the person who will always be waiting for their other half to show up. A half that never will, because she is a Prescott girl.

“Wait.” 83 looks up at Hardman, eyes round, pleading. “I want to know.”

The words come out like a whisper, but she knows that he hears her anyway.

He doesn’t look at her as the name burns away.

 

* * *

 

Liz is almost seventeen when she decides that she’s officially over the idea of Soulmates and that she’s too old to buy into those stupid fairytales anyway.

She’s almost seventeen when she learns that her father has another girlfriend.

That he’s moving to Florida.

That he’s trading in his children for a pontoon boat.

For the record, Liz does not even know what a pontoon boat is.

But all of this is enough to make her realize that Soulmates are a sham and a fairytale and stories for stupid kids who believe in things like fate and destiny. Who believe that the universe is actually looking out for them.

Because her mother has her father’s name on her wrist and he has hers and apparently it’s “too much pressure” to know that you’re destined to be with one person for the rest of your life. “Where’s the fun in that, hmm?”

Liz listens to the door shut behind her father for the last time and presses her thumb, hard, against the number on her wrist. Not that it means anything, anyway.

Just further proof of the great cosmic joke that is Soulmates.

Or maybe, Liz thinks, maybe the cosmic joke is the Larson family.

 

* * *

 

Liz is a fan of long-sleeves and, when those won’t work, bracelets. Bracelets are a must when you have to spend your days in a building crowded full of people who don’t have anything better to think about than Soulmates and Soulmarks and when they’ll meet and what they’ll be like and blah blah blah.

Megan is a pain in the ass in a lot of ways, but Liz has to admit that it’s kind of nice to meet someone who doesn’t immediately want to show off her Soulmark and ask Liz about hers.

In fact, Liz finds herself being the curious one for the first time, watching Megan at the dinner table, attempting to catch a glimpse of her wrist and the letters inked there.

Apparently, she’s just as bad as the girls that she goes to school with, the ones that she hides her pathetic Soulmark from every day.

It isn’t until they’re doing the dishes and Megan pushes up the sleeves of her shirt to keep the fabric from getting damp that Liz is able to get a good look at Megan’s wrist.

Her eyes grow wide at the sight. “Oh my god,” she breathes out quickly, unable to stop herself. “What happened to you?”

It takes Megan a beat to catch on but then her eyes shift to her wrist and the thick scar there on her skin. “Oh, yeah,” she shrugs. “I got burned when I was younger.”

Liz turns her attention back to the pot she’s supposed to be scrubbing, just so she can stop staring at Megan’s scar. She doesn’t want to be _that_ guy. “It looks like it hurt.”

“Just for a minute,” Megan tells her dismissively. “I’ve had worse.”

Liz lifts her eyebrows and Megan looks sheepish, giving her an apologetic smile. “I mean…you know…emotionally,” she says quickly, trying to make her expression serious and somber.

“Oh, yeah,” Liz mutters. “Right.”

She figures the whole dead parent thing would probably do that to a person.

And Liz hates herself, she does, but she can’t stop herself from saying, “It sucks that it’s right over where your Soulmark would be.”

Once again, it seems like Megan is just a beat behind her, but then her face brightens. “Oh yeah! That’s a thing, right.” She grins, shaking her head. “It’s kinda cool, isn’t it? Having a Soulmate or whatever. Like…romantic.”

Immediately, Liz feels any good, friendly feelings for Megan vanish, replaced by white hot annoyance. “It’s stupid,” she grumbles. “You _would_ be the kind of person who thinks Soulmates are romantic.”

She scrubs the pot with an intensity that would probably shock her mother, given Penny’s belief that Liz and chores do not go well together. But it’s better than looking at Megan and thinking about her father and the number on her wrist.

“Do you have a Soulmark?” Megan asks, seemingly unbothered by Liz’s comment.

“Everyone has one,” Liz snaps. She stops scrubbing, letting her eyes slide toward Megan’s wrist. “Well, I guess not everyone.”

She feels oddly validated when she sees the flicker of hurt cross Megan’s face.

It’s only later that Liz realizes that she actually feels guilty about what she said to Megan.

Not that she’s going to apologize or anything.

 

* * *

 

Having Megan there is a lot to get used to and Liz is starting to regret this whole foreign exchange student thing. If she had known that the exchange student was going to be someone like Megan, who never seems to stop talking or smiling or just…being Megan, then Liz definitely would have deleted the e-mail without even bothering to open it.

But, as it so happens, she’s stuck with Megan. And sometimes, Liz thinks that she’s quite literally stuck with her, considering the fact that Megan seems to have very little concept of personal space and who always seems to be there whenever Liz closes her locker door or walks into the lunchroom.

Unless she’s with Roger…not that Liz minds those moments or anything like that. Megan can chase after Cash and hang around with Roger all she wants. In fact, Liz is _grateful_ for those two idiots for giving her a break from Megan Walsh.

Though a break from Megan Walsh usually equates to eating alone in the cafeteria or sitting by herself during study hall, watching as Megan laughs at some stupid pun that Roger is making or watching as Megan swoons after stupid Cash and his stupid, terrible songs. Liz chews on the inside of her mouth, pressing her thumb to the 83 on her wrist, watching through narrowed eyes.

Yeah, so Megan is a lot to get used to. But sometimes Liz feels like not having her hanging around is just as annoying as having her right there.

Liz has no idea when she started caring about having someone notice her.

But she does know that there’s a permanent bruise on her wrist now from the amount of times she’s pressed her fingers to the number there and wished that it said something else.

 

* * *

 

Kissing Bernard is a lot like vanilla ice cream. It’s not the greatest thing in the world, but it’s still ice cream.

She knows that Bernard is not her Soulmate. She doesn’t think that she would want to be the type of person who would be satisfied with spending the rest of her life with someone who enjoys letting people call him Gooch and Liz has seen his wrists and she knows that it’s not her name there on his skin.

But still, Liz lets him kiss her and she rests her head on his shoulder when he takes her to the movies and she tries to tell herself that this is good, that she’s being noticed here and now and by him.

Even still…

Liz can’t help but glance down at her wrist on the car ride by to the house, letting her bracelets fall aside for the briefest of moments. “Does the number eighty-three mean anything to you?” She asks him before she can talk to herself out of it.

Bernard seems to think it over, tilting his head as he considers. “Um, no, I don’t think so. Why?”

Liz slides her bracelets back into place and shrugs, giving him a smile that isn’t entirely forced. “Just wondering.”

 

* * *

 

“Thank god you didn’t get pissed and bump me off.”

Liz means for it to be a joke, though it’s probably not the best one -not that she feels like she can really be held accountable for that right now. It’s not her fault if her jokes aren’t exactly up to par. She did just experience her first ever car chase, after all.

Megan looks at her like she’s a puppy that someone has just run over in the street and Liz can’t help but stare at her in return, feeling a weird flush spread through her body. It probably has everything to do with the painkillers they’ve been giving her and has absolutely nothing to do with the color of Megan’s eyes or the way she’s looking at Liz like she’s the only person in the world.

Absolutely nothing to do with that.

“I’m fine,” Liz assures Megan, trying to make her voice sound as sincere and solid as possible. Her head is pounding and there’s that weird, prickling hot feeling spreading through her chest but other than that, totally fine. Nothing she wants Megan to worry about. “Seriously. I’m fine.”

Megan shakes her head. “I just feel so bad, Liz,” she admits quietly and Liz finds herself missing the old, annoying, always smiling Megan. “Everything is my fault. You could have gotten hurt even worse and I’m just so sorry and-”

“Stop,” Liz says quietly. “Just…stop, okay? I’m okay and so are you and that’s what counts.”

Liz wishes it was really that simple, that being okay now, in this moment, means that it’s always going to be the case. But it’s better than worrying about Megan, better than wondering what it might mean that she’s actually an assassin and is clearly on someone’s not-so-nice list.

It’s better than worrying about something worse happening to Megan.

“Just…” Liz moves over on the bed, patting the mattress beside her. “Stay with me.”

Megan does exactly as she’s asked, climbing into bed beside her and sitting with their shoulders and hips flush together. When Megan reaches for her hand, Liz offers up the one with her bare wrist, something that she’s gotten so used to doing that it’s become second nature. She keeps her other hand tucked beneath her thigh, hiding the number on her wrist from view.

Not that she thinks that Megan will question her about it or suddenly develop the desire to spark up a conversation about Soulmates and Soulmarks.

But old habits die hard.

 

* * *

 

When Knox calls Megan 83, Liz feels like she’s been hit upside the head by one of Knox’s goons.

In fact, she’s pretty sure that being hit upside the head by one of Knox’s goons would be less confusing than having to sit beside Parker and wonder what all of this means.

Megan.

A part of her is tempted to raise her hand like she might in class and say, “Um, excuse me, angry assassin lady, not interrupt, but could I ask for some clarification?”

Not that she needs to, once Knox addresses herself as Number One. The original Prescott. And Liz feels the pieces fitting together in her mind. Megan is the name she gave herself; 83 is the name that she was born with.

Liz suddenly wants to tuck her head between her knees and try some yoga breathing techniques to make the world stop spinning.

This is probably the worst moment to find out that you’ve actually already met your Soulmate.

And that her Soulmate is Megan Walsh.

She’s really going to need a timeout to process all of this.

 

* * *

 

Liz finds herself laying awake at night more often now, staring up at the ceiling as she listens to the sounds of a sleeping house and a sleeping neighborhood. She used to lie awake and think about her parents and whether her father would call. She used to lie awake and think about leaving Newton in a few months and what college would be like.

And now she’s laying awake and thinking about Megan.

Liz looks at the number on her wrist, the same two numbers that she’s been staring at for four years. The numbers that now make sense to her. A number that she now knows represents a person.

Suddenly, the idea of having a Soulmate, of her Soulmate being _real_ , makes Liz want to roll over and throw up into the trashcan beside her bed and never come out of her bedroom again. Her stomach feels tangled up all together, twisted into knots that make is impossible to breathe.

How is she supposed to look Megan in the face and know what she knows? How is she supposed to just accept the idea that the universe really does have some sort of plan for her? That fate and destiny brought her her Soulmate in the form of a pint-sized reformed assassin?

Okay, now Liz thinks she really _might_ throw up.

The moment passes, though the feeling of tightness in her chest and butterflies in her stomach doesn’t disappear. Liz hides her hands back under her blankets, like that can just solve everything for her. Like that can make her hands stop shaking.

Liz wonders if this is the way that she’s _supposed_ to feel upon meeting her Soulmate. If the idea of it is supposed to make her nauseous and hot, if she’s supposed to suddenly feel too big for her own body.

Though, to be fair, Megan has _always_ kinda made her feel that way.

Liz groans, covering her face with her pillow and squeezing her eyes shut tightly.

Life was a little bit easier when she thought she didn’t really have a Soulmate out there. Nothing complicates things like the realization that your Soulmate is actually sleeping down the hall in the guest room.

The whole trained assassin notwithstanding.

 

* * *

 

Megan decides to stay, officially, and Liz feels like she can breathe easily for the first time since Megan brought up the idea of leaving for the Larsons’ own safety. But Megan decides to stay, decides to officially say goodbye to Prescott and finish her term as a normal high school student and see what happens next.

“I mean, there’s always college,” Megan remarks at the kitchen table as they eat breakfast on the first day of Thanksgiving break. “We could go together.”

She grins at Liz as she says this, her eyes bright, hair still slightly messy from sleep. She’s taken to wearing some of Liz’s old t-shirts to sleep in and Liz finds the whole picture almost impossible not to smile at.

And so she does, her heart doing something fluttery and annoying in her chest. “You think so?”

Megan shrugs, taking another bite of cereal. “It could be fun,” she says. She brightens suddenly, sitting up straighter. “We could be roommates!”

Liz swallows, her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth. It’s been almost two months since she had the realization that Megan is her 83, the person who belongs to the Soulmark on her wrist, and she hasn’t been able to find the words to say it out loud. To anyone. Even Megan.

All she can do is look at the thick scar on Megan’s wrist and wonder what it might have said.

Later, when she and Megan are sitting on the roof, wrapped in blankets and staring up at the stars, Liz can’t help but let her head rest on Megan’s shoulder. “I’m glad that you aren’t going anywhere.”

It’s easier for her to say things like this, to pull back her veil, when she doesn’t have to look at Megan when she speaks.

Megan moves closer to her and it’s all too easy for Liz to tuck herself into her side. “I don’t want to be anywhere else,” Megan tells her. “I want to be here. With you. And Parker, and your mom.”

Megan seems to add the rest of the names in as an afterthought, not that Liz allows herself to dwell to much on that. Just like she doesn’t let herself think too much about how it had felt to hear Megan say those words.

She understands them all too well, though. Because here, with Megan, is exactly where she wants to be too.

 

* * *

 

It’s Christmas break and there’s a stocking above the mantle with Megan’s name on it and Liz has stopped thinking about the number on her wrist. It’s not a conscious decision that she’s made or even something that she’s entirely aware of. For the first time in years, the number written there on her skin isn’t the first thing that she thinks about each morning, or the thing she presses at like a bruise during classes or lunch while she just waits for the time to pass. It’s there on her skin but she hardly notices anymore.

Instead, she notices other things, like how much easier it is to smile and laugh now, how she doesn’t count down the days with the same intensity that she had done before. Instead, she does her homework with Megan, talks about helping her apply to colleges, and they sit at the kitchen table together and turn over the idea of going to the same school in the fall.

She notices Megan and the way her eyes always brighten before the rest of her face when she sees something that she likes. Or how her nose scrunches up slightly when she smiles. And how when she’s hurt or confused she wears the expressions easily and without hesitation.

“I feel like you were probably a terrible spy,” Liz tells her, three days before Christmas, while she and Megan are helping Parker build “the most epic train track” through the downstairs level of the house. “I can always tell what you’re feeling.”

“Actually, I was the best,” Megan tells her frankly. “Top of the class, in fact.”

Liz lifts her eyebrows. “Really?” She asks this with a touch of admiration and a hint of skepticism.

Megan nods. “Yup,” she tells Liz. “Maybe you can always tell what I’m thinking because I want you to. Ever think about that?”

Liz isn’t sure how to respond. She just watches as Megan snaps another piece of the track in place, seeming unbothered by this revelation.

And on Christmas morning, there are presents and terrible Hallmark Christmas movies and a fire even though it’s fifty degrees outside but no one protests because it just seems to fit the whole mood of the day. And it gives Liz an excuse to lay on the couch with her head in Megan’s lap while they watch cheesy movies with Parker at her feet and Megan’s fingers in her hair and it’s easy for her to fall asleep.

 

* * *

 

Liz turns eighteen and there’s one month and three days left before she gets to walk across the stage and get a piece of paper that says that she can officially leave high school (and preferably Newton) behind forever.

There’s a cake with thick, sweet, white frosting that sticks to the roof of Liz’s mouth when she eats it, not that she minds because she’s too busy smiling at Parker, licking the cake off the bottom of eighteen half-melted candles, and Megan, who is helping herself to a third piece of cake like she’s never eaten it before in her life.

And, Liz thinks, maybe she hasn’t, which only makes her want to slide Megan another piece.

Her dad doesn’t call but Liz can’t help but feel like everything is exactly the way that it’s supposed to be anyway. There’s still off-key singing, still presents, still people sitting there at the table who love her.

Liz looks at Megan, sitting across from her, and knows this without a doubt.

And she wonders if maybe that’s what she’s been waiting for all along: the feeling of being loved without the Soulmark calling the shots. The knowledge that Megan loved _her_ , not because fate or destiny had apparently brought them together and said she had to.

That it was a choice, not a surrender.

The idea makes Liz want to laugh and cry and sing all at the same time and Liz isn’t sure how she’s supposed to handle all those things simultaneously.

 _Pull back the veil_ , she thinks and can’t help but smile at Megan, who smiles back without hesitation, her teeth slightly stained with frosting.

After Parker has gone to bed and Penny has wished her a happy birthday for the final time -teary and overly emotional, like she hasn’t already come to terms with the fact that her daughter is eighteen- Liz climbs out her window and sits down beside Megan on the roof. The weather is far from chilly now, but still she lets Megan drape the blanket around her shoulders.

Liz reaches for Megan’s wrist, letting her fingers gently brush against the raised skin there. “They did this to you, didn’t they?” She asks quietly.

They don’t talk about Prescott much and never unless Megan is the one to bring it up. But somehow, Liz thinks that Megan won’t mind.

Megan nods. “Yeah, when I turned thirteen. They didn’t want us to have any attachments, any loyalties outside of Prescott. So, you know, no Soulmates.”

Liz lets her fingers linger there on the scar, looking up at Megan. “You don’t know what it said?”

Megan shrugs. “No.” She lets her eyes settle on Liz’s. “Does it matter?”

“No,” Liz says quietly, decisively, and leans forward to kiss Megan.

Megan seems to be waiting for her and when their lips touch, Liz swears that she sees fireworks.

And this time, when Megan reaches for her hand, Liz offers her the one with the number written there on her skin, turning her wrist so Megan can see the Soulmark. Megan’s eyes linger there, tracing the 83, the name of the Prescott girl who never could quite figure out how not to grow too attached to people and things.

And Megan thinks for the first time that she knows exactly what the name on her wrist would have been.  

 


End file.
